


Come Together

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-10
Updated: 1999-05-10
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	Come Together

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Come Together

# Come Together

  
  
5:00 AM (Pacific time)  
Dawn had not yet arrived in the sleeping town of Whitehorse. Drab houses  
were nestled in the tufts of snow that lay slowly melting in the spring  
breeze. Nothing human stirred. Ptarmigans floated listlessly in the  
air and swallows pecked the moss that lay beneath the snow. On the ridge  
overlooking the valley east stood a solitary house. Morning had not  
yet begun for the inhabitant.  
  
5:30 AM  
Silence. The invading condition that occupied the house had mere seconds  
to live. The radio alarm clock in the bedroom beeped red and blasted  
out the hazy diatribe of the local mouthpiece. GOOOOOD morning, Whitehorse!  
Wild Man Jack Rivers here to brighten your day! Okay, early birds, haul  
your sleepy butts out of bed with this golden classic from the Beatles....Here  
come old flattop he come grooving up slowly....  
Constable Alexander  
Mackenzie Reynolds stretched over a lanky, muscular arm and shut the  
radio off. Hopping out of bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he  
went to the bathroom and began to prepare for the day.  
  
6:00 AM  
Alexander straightened his Stetson and did up the last button on his  
coat. He jangled his house keys, checked his breastpocket for his airplane  
tickets and tightened the handcuffs that were attached to the handle  
of a black briefcase. He threw his dufflebag over his shoulder and shut  
the door.  
6:30 AM  
Alexander walked to the counter in the airfield terminal. He dropped  
his dufflebag next to him and presented his tickets to the girl who  
took one look at them and then pushed them back. The look of quiet expectation  
left his face.  
"What's wrong?" he asked.  
The girl sadly shook her head.  
"I'm sorry, Constable Reynolds, but we're overbooked."  
Alexander's face went pale with disappointment.  
"What do you mean 'overbooked'? I ordered these tickets two weeks ago.  
You said there was nothing wrong. Just check your manifest again. There  
must be some mistake."  
"There is no mistake, Constable," the girl  
confirmed, "I'm sorry."  
Alexander pulled away from the counter.  
His brow furrowed in frustration. In the corner of his eye, a large,  
slovenly hulk with sandy red hair chewed on a Snickers bar and scrutinized  
him.  
"Can I help you?" Alexander huffed.  
"I's thinkin' I could helps you, Officer," the man said.  
"How could you do that?"  
"I have a plane and I'm goin' as far as Edmonton. Ya needs a ride,  
do ya?  
Alexander stared at this man plainly.  
"Look-" Alexander pointed at the name badge sewed on the man's overalls,  
"Biff-there are things in this world that a man out of pride and decency  
will not do and flying to Edmonton with you is one of them. Thank you  
anyway."  
"Suits yourself," with that, Biff walked from Alexander.  
Alexander stared at his watch and cast his gaze over the briefcase.  
Throwing his head back in despair, he approached Biff and accepted the  
offer.  
"That'll be $100," Biff said between chews.  
Alexander burst.  
"$100! Do you think I'm crazy?!"  
Biff simply shrugged.  
"Ya needs to go and hey, gas ain't cheap."  
"Tell me, Biff," Alexander pleaded sternly, "they do have morals on  
the Rock, do they?"  
"None that I've heard of," Biff replied and  
walked from the terminal inviting Alexander to join him. Alexander's  
Irish temper was quelled once more when he realized the rarity of his  
opportunity. He only hoped that this would be the only catastrophe of  
the day.  
  
7:30 AM (Central time)  
"Anna. Oh, Anna."  
Constable Benton Fraser stood at the foot of his unruly daughter's bed.  
Still wearing his red longjohns, he had not even begun to prepare for  
the day. He was not worried for himself but for Anna. Today she was  
insistent on war and Fraser could not stand for it. He pulled the blankets  
from her bed revealing a small elfin child with black hair and gleaming  
blue eyes. With her white bear tucked securely under her arm, she jumped  
and started to bolt. Fraser picked her up and swung her to a stable  
position.  
"Oh, please," she entreated, "can't I stay with you today?  
I'll be good. I won't bring my fingerpaints. Please?"  
Fraser shook  
his head at the four-year-old.  
"I'm sorry, Anna. That will not do. Not today. Remember those important  
people I told you about? They are coming today. Even if I wanted to,  
I still couldn't take you with me today. And what is wrong with staying  
with Francesca? I thought you liked her?"  
Anna stubbed her toe  
on the bed and avoided her father's eyes.  
"I do but I won't be able  
do anything fun there. Please? I'll be good."  
Fraser felt defeated;  
if he let Anna stay with him she may very well cause something to burst  
and with Chief Inspector Forbes arriving that event would be least desired.  
If he let Anna stay with Francesca, she would be bored out of her wits,  
unhappy. Fraser was always at an end. And she couldn't accompany him  
forever.  
"Anna, please listen. As much as I would like to have  
you with me we can't always be together. One day, you'll have to start  
school and then you'll discover a more interesting world outside the  
consulate. Wouldn't that be more exciting than a stuffy office?"  


"Give me one reason why I can't come with you today?" Anna asked in a last-ditch attempt to defy her father.  
"Anna-well-you tend to set fire to things."  
"That's no reason..."  
Fraser gave her a stern look. Anna conceded to defeat.  
  
9:00 AM   
Ray brightened as he opened up the door for Anna. His day off would prove engaging. She glumly got in, covering her face with her hair.  
"Don't look so gloomy, Annie," Ray consoled her, "I'm sure Frannie will have something fun for you to do."  
Fraser climbed into the car and placed his Stetson on his lap. In the rearview mirror he observed the lowly Anna.  
"Anna, I thought we talked about this. You'll be happy with Francesca."  
Ray shook his head.  
"If I had to spend a whole day with Frannie I'd be unhappy, too."  
"Ray, you are not alleviating matters."  
Ray turned to the back.  
"Don't worry, Annie. After I get the Bulls' tickets, we'll play 'Hatchet', okay?"  
Anna nodded. In grim shock, Fraser swivelled his head.  
"Hatchet?!"  
Ray hesitated.  
"It violates nothing in the Geneva Convention."  
Fraser was still worried. After all, 'Hatchet' did not sound like an activity the whole family could enjoy.  
Ray pulled up to the consulate. Fraser and Diefenbaker stepped out.  
"Promise me you won't play 'Hatchet'."  
Ray nodded reluctantly. Fraser reached over to Anna and kissed her on the cheek.  
"Be a good girl."  
Ray and Anna pulled away. Fraser had the gnawing intuition that he would see her again shortly.  
  
9:00 AM (Mountain time)  
Alexander braced himself as Biff landed the Sandpiper on the Edmonton tarmac. Light flurries skipped off the windscreen. When Alexander was sure that the plane had stopped, he grabbed on to the briefcase, stepped out of the plane and into the terminal. He walked over to the counter and waited as the dark-haired clerk gabbed on the telephone. He tapped impatiently on the counter with his fingertips. The more he tapped, the more the girl gabbed. Finally, she got off the telephone, replaced her silver dangly earring and huffed at Alexander.  
"Can I help you?"  
"Yes," Alexander replied trying to cage in his impatience with the impudent clerk, "I need one ticket from here to Chicago, please."  
"We have no flights going in that direction," she replied pertly and scuffed her nails.  
Alexander stiffened his lip.  
"You didn't even check your computer."  
"I already know so I don't need to check and don't tell me how to do my job."  
"Look, madame," Alexander returned, "I am simply asking for one ticket which I am sure you can give if you will only check your computer, run it up for me...I will pay in cash."  
The clerk clucked at him.  
"I will do no such thing. If this flight is so important to you why don't you ask Air Nigeria or something. I'm sure they will give you a ticket, your Royal Highness."  
Barely being able to contain his fury, Alexander left the counter shaking with an ungodly rage. First, it was overbooking, now, a smarty-pants clerk who wouldn't even give him the time of day. He slumped onto the lounge chairs in the waiting area pressing the tips of his fingers together like conduits conducting the energy of anger. The flurries raged outside; the hounds of war had been unleashed inside of Alexander. A ragged man appeared before him.  
"Do you need to go to Chicago?"  
Alexander stared at this miracle in a CO-OP cap.  
"Yes."  
Follow me."  
Blindly, like a child, he followed.  
  
9:50 AM (Central time)  
Inspector Margaret Thatcher peered out the consulate window nervously. Dressed in a red dress instead of the standard Mountie uniform, she waited for the arrival of the inspectors. Everything had been put into place. The casefiles updated, reshuffled and replaced in their proper order, the personnel tutored in their already impeccable manners and the entire building was spit-shined from the flagpost to the front steps. The catering and hotel reservations had been prepared long since. Thatcher spared no expense. She dreaded this day in a subconsciously cowardly way but was drawn to it. The idea of order with an iron fist seemed an appealing topic. She was glad that Anna wasn't here. Sure, children, particularly children of subordinates, were supposed to be charming and therefore treated with the utmost courtesy that Thatcher was capable of dishing out to an underage being. But Anna was different. She made Pearl from The Scarlet Letter seem distinctly angelic. Nay, even the Reservoir Dogs had an air of sweetness about them. Still stinging from the balloon incident, Thatcher put ill thoughts out her mind and concentrated on the present. She strode over to Turnbull's desk. She aligned the books on his desk once more and fluffed up the single carnation standing in a vase of tepid water.  
"Are you alright, Inspector Thatcher?" Turnbull asked.  
"Alright?" she repeated in a nervous laugh, "Of course I am alright. I am fine, serene, calm. In fact, if you looked calm up in the dictionary, you would see my name."  


Turnbull picked up the dictionary from the corner of his desk and Thatcher motioned him to put it away. Fraser, his hands twitching slightly, addressed the two.  
"They're here," he said calmly.  
Standing at attention, they waited for the inspectors to come up the stairs. Thatcher swallowed an obstruction.  
"Why Forbes?" she asked in a hushed voice to Fraser. "I mean, why not Franklin or Hawthorne? Why couldn't Sgt. Frobisher do this himself? After all, this is just a midyear inspection."  
"Chief Inspector Forbes is our superior officer," Fraser whispered back, "He has a wealth of experience in the field. I am sure our report to him will be most satisfactory."  
"For God's sake, Fraser, he's Darth Vader."  
A tall man with a wave of black hair and piercing iceberg blue eye arrived at the top of the stairs. He stared at everyone, scrutinizing them in a sinister fashion. He lifted off his cloak and handed it to a slightly shorter man with the same burr of black hair. He smothered a cough. Immediately, Fraser remembered the fateful visions in his youth of the notorious Darth Vader as he stepped aboard the Death Star. Turnbull wished somehow that Sir Alec Guinness would come and give everyone peace of mind. But that was not to be. No, Forbes was a force to be reckoned with, an angry muskox tormented one too many times. Indeed, Chief Inspector Alexander J. Forbes held everyone in the room in a state of primal fear.  
Behind Forbes, a sprightly older man pounced up the steps behind him. Sergeant Buck Frobisher, superior officer and Mountie legend extraordinaire, saluted everyone. They saluted in return.  
"As you all know," Buck began, "we are here for our midyear inspection. Forbes and I expect your complete cooperation."  
Buck strolled over to Fraser.  
"It's good to see you again, Benton," Buck smiled. "How is little...Emily?"  
"Anna," Fraser corrected him.  
"Anna. That's right. Little Annie. She's fine, is she?"  
"Quite."  
"Cut her first teeth yet?"  
"She's four, sir."  
Buck nodded.  
"Right. As you were."  
Thatcher saluted Forbes.  
"Is there any particular area which you would like to commence, sir?"  
"Coffee," said the young man next to Forbes, " and lemon tea for the chief inspector."  
Caught off guard, Thatcher nodded.  
"Of course..."  
"Constable Robert Bruce Forbes, attache for the chief inspector," he introduced himself.  
Thatcher sent Fraser and Turnbull to get some coffee for the inspectors. Robert leaned over to Turnbull and whispered that he would like some whiskey in his cup. Fraser and Turnbull went downstairs to get the coffee. From the window, he could see Ray's Riv pull up in front. Wracked with worry for Anna, he ran out to meet Ray. Francesca tugged Anna out of the car and Ray, halted by familial duty and unsurceasing sorrow, slugged over to Fraser with his hands in his pockets.  
"Anna, what's wrong?" Fraser knelt down to her height and hugged her.  
"You want to know what's wrong, Fraser, I'll tell you," Francesca cut in, "your daughter is the root of all evil. That's what's wrong."  
"What did she do?" Fraser asked.  
"I"ll tell you what your little angel did. She ruined my kitchen, that's what she did."  
Too stunned to be angry at the imp, Fraser looked with amazement at Francesca.  
"She took a roasting chicken, four cans of tomato paste, my niece's Ken doll and killed some Scottish guy named Wally Williams or something like that. All over our kitchen!"  
"It's going to take us forever to clean off the ceiling," Ray added.  
"It was for The Greater Chicago Avant-Garde Film Fest, "Anna explained. "I also have the death of Simon Fraser and you should see the Battle of Bannockburn."  
"I want to see nothing of the sort," Fraser rasped.  
Fraser looked at Ray as if to possibly receive some sort of assurance by his friend.  
"I can't help you, Benny," Ray shook his head. "She destroyed our kitchen. I covered for her when the mayor had his little "accident", I investigated the corner store incident in a slipshod manner, I even turned a blind eye when she released the chemical weapon on Peoria but I can't do this. See ya around...in about thirty years."  
Ray and Francesca drove away. Anna had given up hope of a swift reprieval of justice. Fraser glared at her with an angry heat that children feel when they are definitely in trouble.  
"The wages of sin, Anna..."  
  
11:00 AM (Central time)  
The plane had landed only a few minutes ago in the old airfield north of Chicago. Clutching onto the briefcase as though it were his very life, Alexander hitched a ride into town, wired and extremely unhappy. But after having enough, Alexander embraced the culture of hope; a hope that he would make it through the day without being killed and, more importantly, without losing the briefcase. He staggered into the Greyhound bus depot and asked for a ticket. Amazingly, without incident, he got one. He climbed on to the dingy bus and sat next to a little boy who apparently was sitting by himself. The boy gazed at him with innocent brown eyes.  


"You can't sit here," he said meekly but succinctly, "my mama sits here."  
Alexander ignored the boy and stared straight ahead of him. He had enough and wanted no more. He turned his head at the slight puff of hot breath. A very large angry woman glared at him and in what seemed like slow-motion, raised her leather handbag and swung it at Alexander's head. He fell crumpled to the floor.  
"Stay away from my little boy!"  
Alexander ignored her and lay crouched in a fetal ball on the bus floor, trying desperately to be oblivious to the world that had, for some reason, been so cruel to him today.  


Fraser put Anna in the supplies' room and left her facing a placard on the wall reading- I WILL NOT MARTYR ROASTING CHICKENS. Thatcher walked up to him just as he closed the door.  
"What are you doing, Constable?"  
Fraser was hesitant to answer her after the balloon "unpleasantness" but knew that he would have to confess to her out of loyalty to his superior officer and out of fear of the shrew.  
"I was in the supplies' room..getting...an eraser."  
It was a bald-faced lie, the only form of lying Fraser was capable of. Naturally, Thatcher saw through it.  
"I will ask you again Fraser, in the simplest way I know how, what-are-you-doing?"  
"Right now, I am breathing, standing, existing. In fact, David Hume had an interesting theory on that..."  
Thatcher grew impatient.  
"Are you out of your wits?"  
Fraser looked at her innocently.  
"In what capacity?"  
"Fraser!"  
Fraser looked down at his feet.  
"Anna is in the supplies' room, ma'am."  
Thatcher shook with fear.  
"Oh no! Oh no! Get rid of her! You get her out of here quickly. You're her father. Tell her she's adopted."  
Appalled, Fraser shook his head.  
"I will do no such thing. She will stay in the supplies' room until I tell her to come out. Everything is under control."  
But Thatcher, now bereft of reason, could not be assured or consoled. She knelt at Turnbull's feet weeping wretchedly.  
"I'll lose my job," she sobbed.  
Turnbull tried to comfort her.  
"That's right," he said, " the dream is over."  
Fraser scolded Turnbull.  
"Turnbull, don't say that! (At least not when she's listening)"  
"Ma'am, we have nothing to fear from Anna," Fraser continued. "I have placed her in the supplies' room and I have her word that she will not try to leave it."  
Her eyes swollen, Thatcher swivelled her head and gazed at Fraser.  
"You know her word means nothing!" she shot back. "She promised she would never play with the firehoses and she did! Oh! I am finished..."  
Forbes' deep, throaty voice summoned the three into the main office.  
"I heard snivelling," he said, followed by a cough, "What was it?"  
Thatcher shook her head.  
"I assure you, sir, no snivelling took place. It is strictly prohibited on the premises."  
"I know snivelling when I hear it, Inspector Thatcher (cough, cough), now who was snivelling and why?"  
Thatcher knew that she was finished. She could not answer the man.  
"Oh, please don't fire me!" she begged.  
Forbes was still at a loss to understand Thatcher.  
"Woman, are you mad?"  
"Fire Fraser," she continued, "it's his kid."  
"Am I to understand that there is a goat in this consulate?"  
"I believe Thatcher is referring to a child," Robert corrected him.  
"Then seek this infant out!" Forbes ordered.  
Robert asked Fraser to accompany him which Fraser did. Fraser took Anna from the supplies' room and presented her to the stern Forbes. Forbes looked down on the smiling elf.  
"Who-are-you?"  
Anna simply smiled at Forbes in a naive way that made her father tremble.  
"My name is Anna Fraser and I have not been convicted of a crime," she answered.  
Fraser felt like committing seppukku right there and then.  
  
"Really," Forbes mused, "that is quite interesting. Tell me, Anna, why is it that you are here today exiled, I believe, to the supplies' room?"  
"I wanted to be here today, actually," she confessed, "but I am here now by accident."  
"I do not understand."  
"Are you from Forbes of Leith or Forbes of Aberdeenshire?" Anna asked, deliberately avoiding the question.  
Stunned at her impertinence yet at the same time compelled by it, Forbes answered her.  
"Of Leith."  
Forbes was silent for a moment, coughing only once.  
"Constable Fraser," he said, "I want you to feed this child."  
"Yes, sir," he replied and led Anna away by the hand.  
"Do I still have my job?" Thatcher asked apparently no longer despondent.  


Buck had just come from the incident room when he spotted Fraser and Anna.  
"Well, well, if it isn't...Anna!" he exclaimed. "Why I remember when you were so high."  
"Daddy, who is he?" Anna asked as she nervously sucked her thumb.  
"This is Sergeant Buck Frobisher. He and your grandfather were great friends."  
Anna scowled suspiciously.  


"I want to see I.D." she demanded but was scolded.  
"My, quite a chipper thing, isn't she, Benton?" Buck remarked and slipped into a reverie.  
"I remember a girl named Hortense Gilford. My, she could talk the pants off of a salesman. When we were young it used to be the local custom to sneak into a tavern using false identification and enjoy a 'root beer'. We were reckless in those days, quite unlike the good, upstanding youth of today. Any way..."  
Buck had finally noticed that Fraser and Anna were gone. Jilted, he went on to further inspect the consulate.  
  
3:30 PM (Central Time)  
Fraser put Anna in the lounge room on the upper floor.  
"Anna," Fraser said softly, "promise me that you will not leave this room and conspire to andor actually commit mischief."  
Anna nodded and watched as Fraser left to perform his duties. She could not get away with anything else today. She started to colour in her colouring book merely dreaming of the nasty things she might have done.  
  
Staggering like a man who had a great fondness of ale, Alexander clamoured the steps of the Canadian consulate, saluting weakly the sentry on duty and making his way to Turnbull's desk.  
"Constable Fraser," Alexander exhaled, "Constable Benton Fraser."  
"He is here. May I ask who this is?" Turnbull inquired as he placed his pencil on the desk in too familiar routine.   
But Alexander would not brook that formality. He sneered at the innocent Turnbull.  
"No, you bloody well may not," Alexander snapped.  
"I can't let you see him without an appointment," Turnbull replied, rather hurt by the surly manner in which Alexander answered him.  
"I'll give you cause for an appointment..."  
Fraser poked his head around the corner and his eyes lit up to see someone familiar.  
"Alex!" he cried and fondly shook his friend's tired hand.  
"Ben!" Alexander exclaimed,"You have no idea how great it is to see you again, especially considering the day I've had!"  
"I don't know what you mean," Fraser responded.  
"You rarely do," Alexander added, "even after the Steve incident."  
"What brings you here?" Fraser asked trying to restore some accord.  
Alexander lifted the briefcase and put it on Turnbull's desk.  
"Ben, I have in this briefcase the rare and only recording of John Lennon's, 'Solid Love'."  
"Is that important?"  
Alexander gaped at him.  
"Is that important? Why, Benny, this is the only recording of a now-deceased brilliant songwriter. Benny, this is my dream assignment."  
"Really," Fraser mused, "so, what are you doing with it?"  
"Well," Alexander explained, "a wealthy Chicago businessman, a record executive no less, bought it from the Inuk storekeeper in Aklavik, you know him, he was always telling stories of how Geddy Lee ate all the Fudgsicles in his freezer, anyway, he charged me to bring it down to him. Well, here I am."  
"The recording is in that briefcase?" Fraser asked.  
"Yes," Alexander answered, "this is a Samsonite briefcase made of the sturdiest polypropylene with a carbon steel combination lock which no one can undo."  
Anna, who had slipped out of the lounge room and been standing idly by, opened the briefcase and took out the valued eight-track. Alexander stared at her in shock. He reached over his trembling hands.  
"Little girl, give me that eight-track," Alexander demanded.  
"No, Alex," Fraser chided, "that will not work. Anna, don't put that eight-track back in its case where it belongs."  
Anna immediately replaced the eight-track.  
"Why did you say that?" Alexander asked.  
"Because if you had said you wanted the eight-track back, she would never have given it to you," Fraser explained. "Now, Anna, go back to your colouring book. And no conspiracies."  
"Who is that little girl and why is she here?" Alexander rasped.  
"That's Anna, my little girl," Fraser answered, "and I can't explain to you exactly why she is here."  
Alexander was rather taken aback; he did not mean to hurt his friend but he did not share a fondness for children. They tended to put things in their mouths.  
"What is important right now is that I give the eight-track to its rightful owner," Alexander said. "I need to see Jonathan More. I've had a really bad day. First, my plane was overbooked and I had to fly in two separate planes and..I was attacked by a fat woman with a purse. Benton, the minute I get this eight-track where it belongs the happier I will be. And think of celebrity of it all. I, a mere constable in the service delivered a recording of John Lennon."  
Fraser seemed really bored but he normally was when Alexander talked about himself. There was a reason why he had been named Alexander. Alexander claimed he had been named after Alexander Mackenzie, the eccentric but devoted Scotsman who was Canada's second Prime Minister, but Fraser had always believed that his friend bore the name of the hubristic Macedonian who conquered the known world so long ago. Would this Alexander weep when he had no more worlds to conquer?  


Robert approached Alexander and shook his hand (not standard etiquette but Robert was not a standard man).   
"Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds."  
"Constable Robert Bruce Forbes. Call me Bob."  
Forbes walked from Thatcher's office, covering the coughs that would escape his mouth. Buck accompanied him. He glared at Alexander who stood idly by as the rest stood aloof and at attention.  
"Constable!" Forbes cried. "Who are you? Stand at attention!"  
Alexander, with reluctance, stood at attention.  
"Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds."  
Forbes strained to hear him.  
"Again!"  
"Constable Alexander MacKenzie Reynolds, sir!"  
Forbes scrutinized him.  
"You are dishevelled, constable, and you apparently lack discipline. Tell me, Constable Reynolds, what is your purpose here?"  
"Sir," Alexander explained, "I am charged with the delivery of a valuable item."  
"And what is that item?"  
"It is an eight-track containing a rare work by John Lennon, sir."  
Buck fumed.  
"What! Not Tommy Dorsey! Outrageous!"  
"He's no Gordon Lightfoot, that's for sure," Forbes said.  
Fraser silently concurred.  
"Are you off to deliver this work to its rightful owner (cough, cough)?"  
Alexander affirmed this.  
"Then, you are dismissed, Constable," Forbes said in a lowly, domineering way, " but I would like to see you back in this office at 15:00 hours, is that understood?"  
Alexander saluted him and turned to leave.  
"Oh, and Constable Reynolds, Constable Fraser will accompany you, to see that you arrive at your destination."  
Alexander swallowed an obstruction. He did not want to be babyed.  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Alexander and Fraser fitted their Stetsons around their heads and began to walk down the spring-worn sidewalks. A lithe black youth bumped into Alexander and seized the briefcase.  
"Hey, stop that kid! Stop him!" Alexander cried.  
Fraser and Alexander gave chase to him. The boy slipped down the alleyway and onto a backroad. He hopped a fence into a series of apartment complexes and ran up the fire escapes. The youth barged into an old woman's apartment. Fraser politely tipped his Stetson and followed the boy with earnest. The boy ran down a flight of stairs and out of the building. Fraser charged after him. The boy dodged an oncoming car and headed down another alley. Diefenbaker pounced onto him but was hit with the briefcase. Alexander, who was heading the opposite way, grabbed the boy's coat and tried to pull him down. The boy pulled a knife and slashed Alexander. Leaping over a pile of garbage bins, the boy made his escape into a waiting Chevy.  
Alexander held the hand that was slashed. Fraser caught up to him.  
"Are you alright?" he asked.  
"No," Alexander replied, "this is the worst day of my life."   


Anna slid the recording of the death of Sir William Wallace into the VCR and pressed play. A crudely coloured paper cut-out of Edward Longshanks stood before a chicken with a head on it. The cut-out ordered the death of "Wallace" and in a matter of seconds toy horses and even a Tonka truck pulled at the flimsy chicken flesh spurting tomato sauce all over the place.  
"Excellent," Anna rubbed her hands together and took the tape from the VCR.  
Robert emerged from the corner in the conference room in the consulate.  
"What's that you have there?" he asked in a friendly way.  
"It's my tape," she replied, "of Sir William Wallace's death.  
Without batting an eyelid, Robert nodded. He had an odd affinity with the littlefolk.  
Anna placed the tape on the table and left the room. She strolled to the desk where Forbes had been working and opened the drawers, expanding her seemingly limitless curiosity. In the second drawer a small felt fabric lay rolled up. Anna took it from the drawer and unravelled it. It was a tartan fabric with hunter-green patches and thin white stripes passing through it. In the corner, an F was sewn delicately. Anna figured that the F was naturally for Forbes. She took the blanket and rolled her soft white bear into it. Yawning once, she went into the lounge room where she had been kept earlier this afternoon, the quietest part of the consulate, and rested on the couch.  
  
Things seemed normal at the 27 precinct. Seemed. Fraser and Alexander casually strolled in, still with the weight of the theft on their minds. Elaine sat hunched over her computer. Fraser tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and glared at him. She was in a very bad mood.  
Fraser recoiled slowly and made his way to Ray's desk.  
"Ray," Fraser said, "it is so good to see you."  
Ray continued to look at his work.  
"I'm not helping you, Fraser," he said, "this is my day off. I am simply filling out this little report for Louise so she doesn't eat me whole. As if a police record had some bearing in a case. Hhmmph. Then, I will go and enjoy the rest of my day." He stopped writing and pointed out something to Fraser as-a-matter-of-fact. "Oh, by the way, I will send you the bill for the ceiling."  


Fraser was slightly despondent.  
"Um, Ray, this Alexander," he introduced Alexander, "Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds, from Whitehorse."  
"I don't care if he is from Red Deer or Yellowknife or Green Gables," Ray replied, "this is my day off. It's not against you or anybody else. I refuse to help anybody from any colour of stripe."  
Fraser frowned. Ray could not help but look at him. The stare he had was the same stare he saw Anna affect-a sad, lost innocence. Ray at last was swayed.  
"What do you want done?"  
"You see, Ray..." Fraser tried to explain.  
"Look, Yankee," Alexander spurted out impatiently, "we need to find something that is very valuable. You don't need to know what it is, you just need to do some leg work for us. We will do the rest."  
Ray stood up and faced the brawly Irishman.  
"Look, Alex," Ray rasped under his breath, "if that indeed is your real name, it is against the policy of the Greater Chicago area police code to allow foreign bodies to influence the course of justice and to utilize the members of that force to the ends of that body or bodies to whatever end, good or bad. I therefore will not comply to your request unless I see fit in my professional discretion to do so. I do not see a reason so I will not comply."  
"What are you saying?" Alexander asked.  
"You're an educated man so I will be blunt," Ray responded, "get stuffed."  
"Ray!" Fraser countered. He took Ray aside. "Alexander needs our help. I know he isn't exactly the most cordial person in the world but, if you could offer your expertise I would be extremely grateful."  
Ray knew he was defeated.  
"Alright. What do you want me to do?"  
"We must commence the search for an eight-track, a rare recording of John Lennon, I believe," Fraser offered.  
Ray's eyes bugged open.  
"John Lennon?! Why didn't you say so?"  
Fraser shrugged.  
"I didn't believe it was absolutely vital. I mean-it's not like it was something by Gordon Lightfoot or Sarah McLachlan or even Lorne Greene."  
Alexander slapped his forehead.  
"I'm sorry, Detective. Benton doesn't have the best taste in music."  
Fraser frowned.  
"I don't think there is anything wrong with Sarah McLachlan. Who doesn't love Gordon Lightfoot?"  
"We'd better start looking for this eight-track," Ray agreed as he put his coat on. "It could be in Hong Kong if we don't hurry."  
"First, I have to tell the owner what has happened," Alexander said. "He won't like it."  
"Well, what potential owner of a rare recording by one of the Beatles wouldn't be?" Ray asked rhetorically.  
The men made their way out. Fraser waved good-bye to the irate Elaine, hoping that she would be in a better mood later.  
  
Four separate beings walked across the white broad bands painted on the road lined with tall oak trees, a solitary Black Maria and a cream-coloured BMW. Alexander's brow creased with worry. He had to tell Jonathan More that he had failed his mission as much as he dreaded it. Diefenbaker and Fraser walked side-by-side as Ray approached the door of a stately Edwardian home hidden by roving English hawthorne bushes. Ray rung the doorbell and was let in by an elderly woman. The foursome moved their way into the den where Jonathan, a stout man with a reddish pony-tail, was just on the telephone. His face brightened to see Alexander.  
"Alex! Alex, it's great to see you! Elenore, get the gentlemen something to drink."  
"No thank you," Fraser refused politely and focussed his attention on Jonathan.  
Alexander introduced him to Ray and Fraser. Diefenbaker busied himself by staring at Jonathan's prized feline.  
"Where is my eight-track?" Jonathan asked excitedly.  
"Yes," Alexander admitted slowly, " the eight-track..now, don't be cross, but it's been stolen."  
Jonathan slumped down on his chair aghast.  
"Stolen?" he uttered in disbelief.  
"We are doing everything in our power to find it," Fraser reassured him.  
"It's not your fault, Constable Fraser," Jonathan replied, "I'm angry at you, Alex. I trusted you. You let me down. I need to have that eight-track."  
"Mr. More," Ray interrupted, "it's no good blaming anyone at this point. What we have to do now think of anyone who could have taken it. Have there been any threatening letters or phone calls, strange cars in the neighbourhood?"  
"Well, Detective Vecchio," Jonathan answered, "who wouldn't want that recording. It is extremely valuable. And rare. The market for such recordings is big and lucrative. My find was extremely lucky. It's like a valuable Picasso. You don't want to share it out but keep on a pedestal so high. That is a kind of selfishness, I know, the kind that would drive someone to have it for themselves at any cost. But I can't think of anything strange going on, Detective. No phone calls or anything like that. I'm sorry I can be of any assistance to you."  
"If you think of anything, give me a call," Ray gave a card to Jonathan.  
They left the house dejected. Alexander fell to the curb and buried his face in his hands. Fraser put his hand on his shoulder.  
"We will get it back," Fraser consoled him.  
"That's not the point," Alexander complained, "it should never have gone missing in the first place. I feel that I have let John Lennon down."  
"Now you are going off the deep end," Fraser said, "what I will say is something is afoot."  
"Afoot?"  
"Yes," Fraser answered, "the getaway car looked used and rusted, as though it had been taken directly from a junkyard. The tires were bald, I checked the tracks, naturally."  
"Yes," Alexander concurred. "I couldn't see the license plate number. Could you?"  
Fraser shook his head.   
"But what could that mean?" Ray asked.  
"Someone could have been waiting for an opportunity to steal that eight-track and did their utmost to conceal their tracks," Fraser surmised.  
"I fell right into their trap," Alexander rubbed the stress from his eyes.  
"They won't get far, Alex," Ray assured him.  
"Well," Fraser said finally, "we must report back. No doubt Chief Inspector Forbes will not be pleased."  
Alexander grabbed the pit of his stomach. His day had gone from bad to worse.  


Forbes burst into the main floor.  
"It's missing!" he cried and coughed. "Find it! Treachery! Ho! Seek it out!"  
All in the office scurried to appease him but they did not know what he had been looking for. Forbes at last trespassed on the refuge Anna had taken.. He found the child asleep on the couch, the prized item, a baby blanket, wrapped around her bear. Forbes features softened. He backed out of the room and closed the door quietly.  


Fraser put his hand on Alexander's shoulder and consoled him repeating that the post at Alert was not as bad as some had claimed it was.  
Forbes, like a fury from hell, raged to Alexander with the force of an inferno.  
"You, Constable Reynolds (cough, cough), are one hour and fifteen minutes late."  
"I apologize, sir, but there has been a complication..."  
"A complication?"  
"Yes. With the delivery of the item..."  
"You are trusted to delivery one item, a task which you seemed to have trouble with, and now you are late."  
A gust of hot air rose to Alexander's lungs.  
"Sir, the theft of the item in question was entirely unintentional..."   
Alexander was inexplicably cut off. The air had left his lungs. Forbes edged over to him.  
"This force is not a place of excuses, Constable. You will be here at 09:00 hours tomorrow morning for disciplinary measures. Understood?"  
Alexander nodded. He was not intimidated by the Plutonian man but irritated.  


Forbes went to his desk and coughed deplorably. He held his stomach in with his arms. The force of the coughs were so great. He felt defeated. As a pathologist and physician, he could not quiet the cough for one minute. He felt compounded by his attache's efforts to cure it with lemon tea or a shot of whiskey. No, he would not appear weak. Not to anyone.  
A small hand pushed the felt blanket across the desk. Forbes looked up. Anna, her eyes reddened by sleep, had returned the blanket. He felt profoundly touched.  
"I don't need it, Anna," he said gruffly, "you may have it."  
"No," she chirped, "I don't need it. You need it more than I do."  
Reaching for the blanket, Forbes could see that she was right.  


Morning had broken. Elaine released the shutters from their fixed positions and allowed the sun to shine forth. She twirled happily and offered everyone gingersnaps she had made. It was only 8:30 AM and the day, it had barely begun.  
Fraser proudly strode in with his head up high, Diefenbaker nipping at his heels. Alexander, on the other hand, hung his head low. Today would be like yesterday and all his troubles would not be far away.  


Elaine pecked Fraser on the cheek and offered him a gingersnap which he accepted gladly.  


"She likes me," Fraser explained.  
Alexander could not share his mirth.  
"You are so naive."  
Ray sat at his desk enjoying a cup of coffee.  
"Still no word on that eight-track," he muttered, "I've rattled a few chains, though. It won't be long."  
Alexander did not seem reasonably convinced.  
"I have to report to the consulate in half an hour. Detective, if you can come with me I'm sure the heat can be taken off somewhat. Hopefully, Sgt. Frobisher will be there and not that bloody surgeon."  
"Oh, you still want my help," Ray cooed sarcastically, "I'm touched. Sure, I'll help. Isn't that what I am here for?"  
Alexander did not appreciate Ray's sarcasm.  
"It was not my idea to ask for you assistance in the first place, Detective."  
Ray slurped down some coffee and smiled depreciatively at Alexander.  
"But I'm here now."  
"You shouldn't be."  
"I want you to know that I love you, Alex."  
Alexander formed a fist. Fraser pressed his hand against Alexander's shoulder.  
"I think we should leave now, Alex, don't you?"  
Alexander cooled down and tried to forget Ray's snipes.  


Ray had been inside the consulate before. Nothing in its plain halls surprised him.  
"Good morning," Robert chirped as he replaced a file.  
Ray greeted him in return.  
"You are?"  
"Forbes, Robert Bruce, attache for Chief Inspector Forbes. You can call me Bob."  
"Forbes, huh?" Ray surmised. "Any relation to the other Forbes?"  
"Yes," Robert answered, "he is my older brother."  
"Get any benefits?"  
"Do I ever!" Robert exclaimed.  
Ray followed his ears to the loud coughing. Chief Inspector Forbes was doubled over with the coughing and did not hear Ray come in. He resumed his posture and greeted Ray.  
"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D. I'm investigating the theft of a valuable item that was in possession of one of your officers."  
Forbes sat back and joined his fingers together.  
"This is about Constable Reynolds, isn't it? Well, Detective, this little effort will not excuse his insubordination or slackness. Am I making myself perfectly understood?"  
Ray could feel the forces of the dark side creep up on him.  
"I just thought I should tell you," Ray squeaked and left the office.  
On encountering Fraser in the foyer, he nearly collapsed.  
"He's not human. He's Darth Vader."  


Anna looked out of the window of Mrs. Miller's apartment.  
"Will we go to the film festival?" she asked.  
Mrs. Miller nodded. She could refuse the girl nothing. At this, Anna smiled.  


Huey flexed his hands and rested them on the steering wheel. Elaine waited beside him. The anonymous tip was slowly paying off. Huey saw a shadow pass in the vast parking lot connected to the Sears Building. Getting out of the car slowly, Huey and Elaine went inside the parking lot, one to the east section and the other to the west. Weaving in and out of cars silently, they came across no one. Only a solitary navy-blue dufflebag lay crumpled in the exit lane. Huey opened it.  
"Will wonders ever cease?" he muttered.  


Huey drummed his fingers impatiently on Turnbull's desk.  
"What is the meaning of this?" Buck exclaimed at the Americans' presence. Elaine walked over to him and began to explain what had transpired that day. Buck seemed perturbed but he nodded.  
When Alexander came out of the main office he was seized by Elaine and placed in handcuffs.  
"If you wanted dinner, why didn't you just say so?" he quipped.  
"Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds, we have an extradition warrant for your arrest," Huey said in a monotone voice.  
Alexander gaped at him.  
"What are you talking about? On what charge?"  
"Theft," Huey replied, "you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used as evidence. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand?"  
Alexander struggled.  
"I'm innocent!" he proclaimed. "You've got the wrong guy."  
Buck placed his hand on Alexander's shoulder.  
"Don't worry, son. This is a mix-up, I'm sure of it. Just co-operate. Within the hour, you will be bailed out."  
"You seem to be our only suspect, Constable Reynolds," Huey added. "We have the eight-track and we've dusted for fingerprints."   
"I can't believe you would think I'd take it," Alexander countered Huey's words.  
"If you didn't take then why are your fingerprints all over the eight-track which was found in your dufflebag?"  
Huey pulled the eight-track from Alexander's dufflebag. His blue eyes widened.  
"I'm being set up," he called out to Fraser as he was being carted way in handcuffs.  


Alexander covered his face with his hands and muttered a steady mantra: This is not happening to me, this is not happening to me. He tried not to breathe lest he smell the dankness in the gray cell in which he had been locked away. A man gaudily painted in make-up and dressed in a woman's frock approached Alexander and troubled him for a cigarette. Persisting in his denial of reality, he continued to repeat what he felt: This just isn't happening to me.  


Fraser put his hands on the bars of the cell. Alexander ran to him.  
"Oh, Ben, you've come to get me out. Oh, thank God!"  
"No," Fraser said, "I've simply come to give you reassurance."  
Alexander became downcast.  
"I don't want reassurance. I want out!"  
Fraser gave him a stern look.  
"Ben, the Americans are barbarians." Alexander whispered to Fraser. "There is a man in a dress in here. He asked me for a cigarette. Does he think I smoke or something? You have to get me out."  
Fraser gave him the same stern look.  
"You haven't changed since we were on the floe off Devon Island. The same hubristic, complaining Alex. As usual, you are lucky that there is someone who gives a damn."  
Fraser left the pen. Alexander loosely gripped the bars of his cell and then sat down on the limp cell mattress.   


Forbes' brow furrowed in innate rage like a storm brewing on the grey sea. Fraser stood at attention, his chest tightening. Forbes coughed once.  
"You wanted to see me, constable?"  
"Yes, sir, about Constable Reynolds, sir."  
Forbes leaned back in his chair.  
"What of him, constable?"  
"Sir, I do not believe he is guilty of the crime of which he is accused."  
"Despite overwhelming proof to the contrary."  
Fraser cleared his throat. Forbes animosity toward Alexander did not help matters.  
"Sir, I believe if we review the facts and go over them in logical order, we will conclude that this is a clever cover-up."  
"Is that what you feel?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"And how is that?"  
"Well, sir, when the eight-track was initially stolen, we discovered that the car was generally disused, had bald tires and no license plate. When we questioned the owner of the eight-track he claimed to have no knowledge or suspicions as to who would have stolen it. In his own words, the eight-track is extremely valuable. I believe that the eight-track was being held for ransom and the owner, not wishing to involve the proper authorities, concealed the truth from us."  
"You believe this is what happened?"  
"Yes, sir, I do."  
"Let me be frank, Constable," Forbes now stood and coughed, "regardless of whether or not Constable Reynolds is guilty of the crime, it stands to reason that this officer whom you defend with just virulence is an insubordinate swaggart whose very actions, or lack of them, have led to this. Even if he is found innocent, this will mar his career. He may even repeat the same error."  
Fraser could not believe his ears.  
"Sir, I believe Constable Reynolds' lack of discipline is not the issue. His innocence is. He has been used as a ploy in an elusive game."  
Forbes sat down again. Fraser's clarity and persistence astounded him.  
"Proceed with your course of action, constable, but under..mild protest."  
Fraser left Forbes' office. It was time to get his man.   


Walsh gulped down the easy-to-swallow Pepto-Bismal tablets. Fraser waited for a response from him. Walsh was reluctant to give it. Everything that the Mountie touched involved some kind of turmoil. He wanted no more of it but couldn't extricate himself from the Mountie's undeniably lawful appeal. After all, he and Vecchio did have a perfect arrest record. What could it hurt?  
"You think we should review the surveillance tapes, constable?"  
"I assumed that would be standard practice, sir."  
"Yes, well, when someone is caught more or less redhanded, we tended to consider other evidence extra baggage."  
"But sir, Alexander did not do it. The individual who stole the eight-track was a young black male, approximately 190 centimetres in height, wearing a grey jacket and black toque. If we see anyone of that description on the tape then Alexander will be exonerated. Constable Forbes is currently reviewing the tapes now. It would be in the best interest of everyone to review these."  
"Constable Fraser," Walsh countered patiently, "if this John Lennon recording is as valuable as you say it is than couldn't your friend have just set up a scheme were the eight-track is "stolen" and then recovered after money is extorted from the owner. Only that this alleged scheme backfired on him. Maybe the second man in this, if there is one, got greedy or scared."  
"But why hadn't the owner of the eight-track not reported such an extortion to the authorities? It does not make sense."   
"No," Walsh conceded, "but robbery never makes sense. Show us the tapes. But I don't think we will see anything contrary to what we already know."  
Fraser was satisfied.  


Robert peered at the fuzzy grey images on the television screen. One solid image moved amid the parked cars and threw a duffle bag to the ground.  
"Caught red-handed!" Robert grinned.  
He replaced the tape in its cover and left it on the table. He was disturbed by a quiet knocking on the door. Anna peeked into the room. Robert smiled to see her.  
"I've come for my tape," she said.  
Robert gave her the tape and waved good-bye. Summoning his superior officers, he packaged the tape and left for the 27 precinct.   


Walsh tried to rub away the pounding in his temples. First, the Mounties had given him ulcers. Now, Jonathan More's lawyer was giving him migraines.  
"My client wants the eight-track returned immediately," the pencil-thin man proclaimed. "And he wants swift reprisal against the man who took it."  
"We need the eight-track as evidence," Walsh explained, still rubbing the pain from his head.  
"I'm sure it can be temporarily returned, to ascertain the quality of it."  
"I'm sure it can," Walsh replied and swallowed an aspirin.  
  
Elaine put her jacket back on. She felt a very cold draft climb up her back. A tall man in a blue uniform, an even yet taller man in a black cloak and Sergeant Buck Frobisher entered the squad room. Elaine turned to face the reason why she felt the chill. Darth Vader had cometh.  
Buck and the Forbes' made their way to Walsh's office.  
"Good day, Leftenent," Buck greeted, "we have in our possession a survellience tape that proves Constable Reynold's innocence."   
More's lawyer scoffed.  
"Your constable is as guilty as hell."  
Forbes, resplendently horrifying in his black cloak, stood as a giant among men. He looked down on the lawyer. The man grasped his collar and tugged on it as if to rip it clean from his person. The air was being choked out of him.  
"I believe that has yet to be proven."  
Walsh stared at Forbes in horror. Was this the work of the devil?  
  
Walsh assembled the officers in the conference room. Fraser and Ray quietly crossed their fingers. Buck placed the tape into the VCR. The security tape did not reveal anything other than Sir William Wallace being pulled apart by three horses and a Tonka truck.  
"I felt the use of the tomato sauce was entirely artistic but it revealed nothing of the theft," Ray said profoundly.  
Fraser slapped his forehead. The hex of Anna had not left him.  
"How, pray tell, does Sir William Wallace involve himself in this?" Forbes asked.  
Robert dabbed his eyes.  
"I thought it was beautiful. Even if it is the wrong tape."  
"And how did it end up here?"  
Robert bit his fingernails.  
"That might be my fault," he admitted.  
"So, conceivably," Buck surmised, "the tape could be anywhere."  
Elaine opened the door and called to Fraser.  
"Anna is here," she whispered. "She is extremely upset. Nothing I do or say is working."  
Fraser entered the squad room. Mrs. Miller tried to console the crying child. A man raved at Elaine. Her arms crossed, she would not listen to his vile excuses.  
"That was not art!" he cried.  
Anna wailed, not bothering to wipe her eyes and leaned against Fraser. He rocked her back and forth to soothe her but she would not be comforted.  
The man was adamant in his rejection of her.   
"I wanted art not boredom. I asked one thing of my artists, that they induce the world to spin on its axis, and what do I get?! Some bland film that looks like it came from a survellience camera! Did I expect too much from a four-year-old?"  
"If you expect a full-length feature film from a child, then you are an idiot!" Fraser exclaimed.   
The man was nonplussed.  
"But I will have that tape," Fraser held out his hand.  
"Here by all means, take it."  
The man thrust it into his hand. Fraser went to the conference and retrieved Anna's tape.  
"Watch this," Fraser commanded.  
"Will it be an improvement?"  
Fraser turned to him.  
"It will be the most amazing thing you have ever seen."  
Fraser returned to the conference room.  
"This is the tape we need," he said as he put the tape in the VCR.  
A shadowy figure slipped out behind a car and dropped the dufflebag.  
"That is who we are looking for," Fraser said as-matter-of-factly. "That was the boy who stole the eight-track. If we find him, we will find the mastermind behind the theft."  
"I'll see that Constable Reynolds is released," Walsh said.  
The man who had formally yelled at Anna was now in tears. In some way, this gratified Fraser.  
"This film," he wept, "was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It's better than Braveheart."  
Fraser knelt next to Anna.  
"We might be looking at an Academy award," he winked.  
Elaine put her hand on Fraser's shoulder.  
"I have something to show you."  
Elaine showed Fraser some financial figures on her computer.  
"This is Jonathan More's bank statement."  
Fraser peered at the dwindling funds in Jonathan's bank account.  
"What could cause a shrinking account?" Fraser asked.  
"Gambling," Elaine replied. "But this interesting," Elaine added, "he's got a hell of an insurance policy on that eight-track of his."  
Fraser became still. Things started to fit together.  
"Tell me, Elaine," he asked, "how is that you come across such information?"  
She smiled wickedly.  
"That is none of your business."  


Ray started up the Riv.  
"So you think Jonathan has a gambling problem?"  
Fraser nodded.  
"I cannot think of another explanation. For a man who earns $50, 000 per annum, he withdraws a lot of money and loses it all at an exponential rate."  


"Then there is one place I need to go to," Ray said finally, "but you cannot come with me."  
  
Ray looked at Luigi DeMarco right in the eye. Four large strongarms stood on either side of the seated don. The backdrop of bright red Chinese silk and barrels of firecrackers gave the godfather a "Last Emperor" sort of look. But there was nothing imperial about this man.  
"What can I do for you, Raymond?" Luigi asked in a grave voice.  
"I need to know something about some guy. You might know him."  
"And why should I tell you?"  
Ray smiled.  
"Because I'm asking."  
Luigi laughed.  
"Jeez, kid! You've got such a wise mouth on ya! Pour the kid some grappa."  
A strongarm poured Ray some peach grappa in a filmy glass. Ray gulped it down in one swig.  
"Now what can I tell you, kid?"  
"I want some info on a guy named More, Jonathan More. Know him?"  
"Know him!" Luigi stood up. "He owes me money, a lot of money."  
Ray's brow furrowed.  
"How much is a lot?"  
"A lot!" Luigi reiterated. "Why you asking so many questions anyway?"  
"I've got a feeling he's setting you up for the shaft, that's all."  
Luigi walked over to Ray and leaned over him.  
"You are obligated to tell me," he demanded.  
"I'm obligated to do no such thing," Ray replied.  
Luigi turned scarlet with fury.  
"Tell me where I can find somebody and I might consider it," Ray offered.  
"You drive a hard bargain, kid."  
Ray smiled quietly to himself.  


Ray got into the Riv.  
"Well?" Fraser quizzed.  
"You were right," Ray answered, "More's a gambler and owes an undisclosed amount of money. DeMarco wants him." Ray turned his head to Fraser. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"  
"If you are thinking that More set this up in order to collect the insurance rather than release the recording to avoid the mob and paying off his debts then you would be correct."  
"Oh, good."  
"Of course," Fraser added, "this means nothing without the boy."  
Ray laughed.  
"Luigi said he lives on the East side and panhandles near the redlight area."  
"Excelsior!" Fraser exclaimed.  
Ray stared at him.  
"Get up and go, Ray."  
"That's what I thought you said," Ray muttered.  
  
Alexander leaned against the grimy walls in the alley.  
"Where the hell are we going to find this kid?"  
"Patience," Fraser suggested.  
"Luigi said he would be here and I've learned to trust him," Ray added. "So hold on to your hat, Mountie-Boy, this is gonna be a bumpy ride."  
Diefenbaker swivelled his head to the left and pointed his nose above the bobbing heads in Chicago's seediest section. He barked once.  
"I think we have him," Fraser noted and pointed at a face that stood out from the crowd. Alexander could not forget. He started to run. The boy saw him and panicked. He ran into the throng of the crowd and pushed over a late-night fruit stand. Fraser and Ray went down the alley going the opposite way. The boy leapt over some crates and down an alley a black away. Two black figures fast approaching him gave him cause to change course. He raced across the street and ran down a flight of steps to the subway. Fraser leapt down the steps effortlessly. Before the boy could catch the oncoming train, Fraser pulled him to the ground. The boy fought back but then stopped seeing as he was powerless and outnumbered.  
Alexander grabbed the boy and shook him.  
"You'd better start talking, kid!"  
Fraser pulled him off.  
"What's your name, kid?" Ray asked.  
"Arlo," the boy said quietly and replaced his touque.  
"You're in serious trouble, Arlo," Alexander warned.  
Fraser preferred to do things his way.  
"Arlo, you in are matters way over your head. You have no choice but to cooperate."  
"Screw you!"  
Fraser held off Alexander once more.  
"Kid, you were used, we know that," Ray stated, "because no street kid is smart enough to pull off something like what you pulled the other day but no jury in the world is going to believe you. You might as well talk."  
"Some guy came up to me," Arlo confessed, "I don't know his name, but I think I know what he looks like, came up to me and said he'd give me $100 just to steal some briefcase. Then he payed me another hundred to throw some dufflebag in a parking lot. I did because I needed the money. I don't care about whatever the hell was in it."  
"Can you describe him?" Ray asked.  
"Yeah, kind of a fat guy with red hair."  
Alexander clenched his forefinger and thumb together.  
"I say we make the big squeeze."  
He turned to Arlo.  
"Thank you, Arlo."  
A look of surprise was etched on Fraser's face.  
"What?" Ray asked.  
"He actually said thank you," Fraser answered.  


Jonathan shoved his desk drawer shut and tossed his airplane tickets into his briefcase. Ray hadn't bothered to knock.  
"Are you going somewhere?"  
Jonathan swivelled his head in horror to Ray.  
"Detective Vecchio?! I..I was merely going on a business trip."  
"Yeah," Ray nodded, "would this be a permanent trip, perhaps?"  


"I don't know what you mean?"  


Fraser and Alexander came in.  
"It's all over, Mr. More," Fraser said.  
"You nearly got away with it, didn't you, Jonathan?" Alexander scowled at him.  
Jonathan turned several degrees paler.  
"First, it was just the theft, then pinning it on Alex over here," Ray illustrated, "he would take the blame while you grab the cash from the insurance. The insurance would be sufficient. It would have to be because if you were to release the recording to the public Luigi would dig into it constantly. I guess that's what you get when you deal with the Mafia. You're lucky they agreed at just breaking your thumbs."   
Jonathan pulled out a revolver.  
"I think that will be enough, Detective. Now back off."  
The three men complied.  
Jonathan grabbed the eight-track and ran from the building into the darkness. He ran to his Mercedes. He jumped in and sped away. Diefenbaker, realizing the hunt was on, leapt out of the Riv and chased the silver Mercedes. Ray, Fraser and Alexander got into the Riv and cruised full-speed after Jonathan.  
Jonathan sweated profusely. This mar in the plan was certainly no small one. If he could only get over the bridge he would be safe. The police could not assemble their forces quickly enough to seize him at the airport. Up ahead, a huge road block on the bridge put a gigantic crimp in Jonathan's otherwise simple plan. He stopped his car. The Riv was not too far away. He would have to bolt on foot. He ran across the huge beams. Diefenbaker bounded onto the fugitive. The eight-track flew from Jonathan's hands.  
"He dropped the eight-track!" Alexander cried. "Stop the car!"  
"What?!" Ray cried. "There is nothing you can do about it now!"  
Alexander did not listen to him. He got out of the car and propelled himself after the eight-track. Catching it in midair, he flailed his arms and legs in screaming defiance of gravity. He hit the water in a resounding splash. Ray and Fraser peered over the rail onto the water.  
"Jeez," Ray huffed, "that guy is waxed!"  
Alexander shot up from the water.  
"Got it!" he cried jubilantly.  
Fraser smiled and looked at Ray.  
"He got it."  


Alexander placed his Stetson on firmly. The gold buttons on his tunic shone in the bleak spring sunshine. He looked almost noble, like the great Macedonian prince on the eve of victory. With great painful effort, he lifted up his leg bound with a heavy cast and left his hotel room for the consulate.  


Fraser finished typing up the More report. He heard a faint tapping on his desk. Alexander tapped softly with his crutches.  
"My flight leaves in three hours," Alexander explained, "I wanted to say good-bye."  
"The end of a bad trip?" Fraser concluded.  
"Yeah," Alexander agreed.  
Alexander released a heavy sigh.  
"You know, I'm glad. This whole affair with the eight-track has left me drained and with a broken leg. No matter for what Beatle, no more favours. Funny thing, though, it's only on my way back that I have a flight right through to Whitehorse. God, that feels good."  
Turnbull, devoid of expression and several degrees paler, told Alexander to go into Forbes' office.  
Forbes sat still, his back to the door.   
"Stand at attention, Constable Reynolds."  
Alexander stood still. "I am a man of few words so my message to you will be brief. No matter where you go or what you do, I will always have my eye on you. Is that clear?"  
Alexander answered antipathically, as though he had no control of his voice.  
"You may leave, Constable."  
Alexander walked out and shut the door behind him.  
"I'm leaving now, Ben."  
Ben offered to help him down the stairs.  
"No, no, Ben. I know my way out." He whispered to Fraser. "May the force be with you."  
Fraser chuckled. Alexander always had to have the last word.  


Buttoning up his coat, Fraser started off the long and winding road home. The night had gone progressively colder. Thatcher walked into the office, oblivious to Fraser.  
"Oh, hello, Fraser!" Thatcher chirped, just noticing him. "On your way home, I see."  
"Yes."  
"Quite a week we've had."  
"Yes."  
"I see Anna won the Avant-Garde Film Fest award."  
"Yes," Fraser nodded proudly, "a crowning achievement."  
"Well, it gives Anna something to do," Thatcher added.  
"I don't know what you mean."  
Thatcher waved it off.  
"Never mind. Ginger cookie?"  
Thatcher reached for a small biscuit canister on her desk.  
"No thank you," Fraser refused, "Officer Besbriss from the 27 Precinct has been feeding gingersnaps to me all week." His brow furrowed. "I think she is trying to kill me."  
Thatcher laughed. Fraser was perplexed.  
"What?"  
"Never mind," she laughed, "good night, Fraser."  
Shrugging his shoulders, he tipped his Stetson to her and walked home.  
  
  


* * *


End file.
